


Nightlife

by 94BottlesOfSnapple



Category: Daredevil (Comics)
Genre: Always a Real Boy Mike Murdock, Bullseye Mike Murdock, Gen, Identity Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 10:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25469047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/94BottlesOfSnapple/pseuds/94BottlesOfSnapple
Summary: Bullseye heads out to kill Daredevil. It doesn't go as planned.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Mike Murdock
Comments: 8
Kudos: 65





	Nightlife

Mike Murdock is not proud of everything he’s done in his life. But he makes a point to not be ashamed of it either. Shame’s for lesser, and far less stylish, people.

He is, though, probably gonna feel a teensy bit guilty after this job. And this is why it’s important to police your baby brother’s friends more stringently, Mike thinks with a sigh, lacing up his boots. Otherwise he gets roped into shenanigans — not-you shenanigans — with vigilantes. Vigilantes who wear dumb horned costumes and kick the shit out of people your boss doesn’t like having the shit kicked out of. And then? Well, then you gotta murder baby bro’s new vigilante friend. And that’s gonna be extremely awkward to console him about later like it isn’t one hundred and ten percent your fault.

But. Nothing for it.

Sighing, Mike slips on his gloves. Then he slings his rifle over his shoulder, and straps a pistol and a few throwing knives to his hips. He’s not exactly planning to get up close and personal with the guy — no thanks, the fellas who do that come out of it looking like fuckin’ hamburger meat, and Mike treasures his beautiful mug — but Mike had been a Boy Scout and all that and he knows it’s better to be prepared than dead.

Locking his apartment door behind him, Mike whistles a jaunty tune. He continues to whistle as he slides the bandanna around his neck up over his nose, then strolls down the stairs, out the door, and onto the filthy streets of good old Hell’s Kitchen.

It’s a beautiful night to kill Daredevil.

* * *

The problem with Daredevil is he’s a slippery bastard. Mike is still oh-so-carefully lining up his shot from three rooftops over when the guy tilts his head, sniffs the air, and takes off like his ass is on fire. Seriously.

There’s nothing for it but to parkour after him. It’s in Mike’s brand not to miss, so he doesn’t take any stupid, wild shots — but he does maybe fire off a bullet or two, silenced shots that crack against old brick and mortar, to herd the vigilante in a useful direction. Daredevil’s at home on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, yeah, but this is Mike’s home turf too and he knows how to hunt in it. Plus, despite being vicious, Daredevil’s still a quintessential good guy. Right on cue he dives through the open window of the condemned apartment building Mike’s been driving him towards. He’s trying to lead his attacker away from anyone who might get caught in the crossfire.

Not that Bullseye does bystander casualties. If you’re a marksman and you shoot someone you didn’t intend to shoot, there goes your reputation.

There’s no clean shot into the building — Daredevil’s at least smart enough to keep away from the windows — so Mike has to take things inside. This gets the rifle kicked out of his hands almost immediately, but that’s fine. It’s not as useful at close range anyway.

No, the issue is that Daredevil’s a flurry of fists, and it hardly gives Mike the time to block, let alone pull out one of his pistols. Ducking allows him to get his hand on a throwing knife, though. He blocks with one arm and flicks the knife with the other. It glances off Daredevil’s body armor, the way Mike knew it would — but it draws the guy’s attention away from guarding the one place he’s not armored: his face. One good Murdock punch — just like Dad — knocks him off his feet, which gives Mike exactly the opening he needs to finally draw his gun. With the barrel of a pistol pointed right at his chest, Daredevil freezes. He’s sprawled on the floor, mid-rise, leaning on his elbows. A single well-placed shot and he won’t stand again. Finally. Mike tugs down his bandanna and offers a winning smile.

“Say goodbye, pal.”

“M-Mike?” Daredevil wheezes, blood dripping down his chin.

“That’s right, buddy-boy. Sorry ‘bout all this, I know you’re pals with my baby brother but a contract is a contract and I’m not the kinda guy to look the other way and let a mark escape. It’s about profe—”

He knows that mouth. He’s always known that mouth. That fucking chin. The tiny little quiver in the jaw that says Matty’s afraid and Mike’s gotta protect him. The whole world tilts horribly on its axis, and the gun slips from Mike’s nerveless fingers to clatter to the floor.

“Matty...?”

No. No, no, no. It can’t be. It... It _can’t_ be. There’s no way. Sure, Matty’s got a bit of a temper but he’s the goody-two-shoes of the family. He doesn’t _know_ how to fight. There’s no way he even could do the shit Daredevil does, the kid’s completely...

Mike kneels over his fallen enemy and, with a shaking hand, pulls off Daredevil’s mask to reveal Matty’s blue eyes underneath.

_Blind_.

“How?” he demands. “ _Why_?”

Matt’s mouth quirks up at one corner but his eyes are sad.

“I could ask you the same thing, Bullseye.”

The codename isn’t said with any malice, but to Mike it still sounds like a curse. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was never supposed to happen. It was supposed to be a stranger under that red mask. Matty was never supposed to find out.

He looks... Disappointed. And that’s not fair. Mike’s always been the troublemaker, what did Matty expect from him, really? But he finds himself trying to explain anyway, how little scams and trickshots turned into something else. How accommodating Fisk had been, how he’d backed Mike against the smaller mafias who had beef with him, how it had been easier to fold than risk the hell the Russians had brought down upon themselves. The weak justifications don’t make either of them feel better, and they don’t help in any practical way.

Mike still doesn’t know what to do.

He knows what he _can’t_ do. He can’t kill Matty. He could sooner kill himself. This kid’s all he’s got in the world, him and his little law office and his little friends.

And now Daredevil.

“ _Fuck_.” Mike says it just to say it, just to say anything. “Fuck!”

He knows what he can’t do. But he’s got no fucking clue what he’s _gonna_ do. Does Fisk know about Matty being Daredevil? Mike hopes not, but if he does there really is only one solution — put a bullet in the guy’s shiny bald head. If he doesn’t know... No, even if he doesn’t know, Mike still has a job to do. And punking out on it, that’ll cause all sorts of trouble.

“Ok,” he says, beginning to pace. “Ok. I just gotta...”

He’s just gotta take down the Kingpin, apparently. This is why brothers are the worst.

“Mike,” Matty says gently. “You’re panicking.”

“You should be too!”

The asshole has the gall to laugh.

“You’re not gonna kill me,” he points out. “What do I have to panic about?”

“How about the fact that a mob boss ordered a hit on you!”

“Eh.” Matt shrugs. “It’s a good sign. Just proof that I’m getting in his way.”

Getting in his way. Yeah, by breaking arms and faces, and... And Mike is staring at his baby brother and doesn’t know a damn thing about him.

“Explain,” he demands. “Explain how you... Just. Tell me everything, Matty.”

The name unlocks him like a key — Matt spills his guts. Superpowers that he kept under wraps for literal decades, how that creepy old man who beat the shit outta him as a kid was also teaching him martial arts, putting on the mask, trying to take down Fisk’s criminal empire. All this shit that a good baby brother tells his twin so said twin can fake their deaths and drag them to fuckin’ California ASAP.

“We gotta grab Karen, and Foggy,” Mike says, pacing. “Since you dragged them into this mess. And then we get the hell out of dodge.”

“No.”

Mike pauses. Narrows his eyes.

“What do you mean _no_?”

“We can’t leave. We need to stop Fisk,” Matty insists with that stubborn little jutted chin he always does when he’s on one of his tirades about Truth and Justice. “He’s hurting people.”

Yeah? And? Mike hurts people all the fuckin’ time. He’s made a career out of it, and it’s kept him safe, well-fed, and dressed in outlandish silk shirts.

Matty’s scowl deepens into a pout. He’ll never admit it’s a pout, but it one hundred percent is. That cute li’l baby-of-the-family pout that’s always gotten him whatever he wants, including a law partner and a secretary who both stare at him with heart eyes. Honestly. The possessive little snot doesn’t need to string _both_ of them along, he could at least throw in a good word for his dazzling and fun-loving twin, but _no_.

“ _Don’t_. Give me that face,” Mike orders, but it’s useless.

The pout disappears, yeah, but it’s replaced with wide-eyed, guileless innocence.

“What face?” Matty asks, like he doesn’t know exactly what the fuck he’s doing.

Ugh. Little brothers. The _worst_.

“You know what face,” Mike grumbles.

“Mike. Please. I... I need your help.”

Manipulative little— Mike would be proud if he wasn’t so irritated.

But, well. Honestly, was there ever really a choice? Mike doesn’t kill Daredevil and Fisk will just send someone else after him. Someone that doesn’t know Matty, won’t care about him, won’t hesitate. And that? No way. That shit is not gonna happen, not on Mike’s watch.

“ _Fine_. Fine. Ok, kiddo,” Mike sighs, picking up his gun and ignoring Matty’s usual protests that there’s ‘only an eleven minute difference’ between them. “Let’s take down a kingpin.”


End file.
